all the roses dead.
Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear. ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned ———————— what happens when I begin to lose myself? I’m scrambling on the floor down on my knees searching for the remnants of my past and what’s left of my soul. if I forgot what I’m fighting for, am I then a lost cause? am I becoming who I don’t want to be or turning into what I was told? what happens when I begin to pick up the pieces? in the ideal world, where would I be? would I be happy somewhere else or exactly where I am? if my life was a song, what would it be? a tune of harmonious melodies or an unsynchronised symphony? at what point do I stop seeking answers and just answer the damned questions. ———— it’s not the time to close the chapter. it’s time to finish writing the book. ———————— M. and now my heart froze over crown is getting heavy on my head and my shoulders.
